North and South
Mr. Hale; and was touched by the half-spoken wishful entreaty that he
would remain a little longer—the plaintive “Don’t go yet,” which his
poor friend put forth from time to time. He wondered Margaret did not
return; but it was with no view of seeing her that he lingered. For the
hour—and in the presence of one who was so thoroughly feeling the
nothingness of earth—he was reasonable and self-controlled. He was
deeply interested in all her father said
“Of death, and of the heavy lull,
And of the brain that has grown dull.”
It was curious how the presence of Mr. Thornton had power over Mr. Hale
to make him unlock the secret thoughts which he kept shut up even from
Margaret. Whether it was that her sympathy would be so keen, and show
itself in so lively a manner, that he was afraid of the reaction upon
himself, or whether it was that to his speculative mind all kinds of
doubts presented themselves at such a time, pleading and crying aloud to
be resolved into certainties, and that he knew she would have shrunk
from the expression of any such doubts—nay, from him himself as capable
of conceiving them—whatever was the reason, he could unburden himself
better to Mr. Thornton than to her of all the thoughts and fancies and
fears that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton said
very little; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale’s reliance
and regard for him. Was it that he paused in the expression of some
remembered agony, Mr. Thornton’s two or three words would complete the
sentence, and show how deeply its meaning was entered into. Was it a
doubt—a fear—a wandering uncertainty seeking rest, but finding
none—so tear-blinded were its eyes—Mr. Thornton, instead of being
shocked, seemed to have passed through that very stage of thought
himself, and could suggest where the exact ray of light was to be found,
which should make the dark places plain. Man of action as he was, busy
in the world’s great battle, there was a deeper religion binding him to
God in his heart, in spite of his strong wilfulness, through all his
mistakes, than Mr. Hale had ever dreamed. They never spoke of such
things again, as it happened; but this one conversation made them
peculiar people to each other; knit them together, in a way which no
loose indiscriminate talking about sacred things can ever accomplish.
When all are admitted, how can there be a Holy of Holies?
And all this while, Margaret lay as still and white as death on the
study floor! She had sunk under her burden. It had been heavy in weight
and long carried; and she had been very meek and patient, till all at
once her faith had given way, and she had groped in vain for help! There
was a pitiful contraction of suffering upon her beautiful brows,
although there was no other sign of consciousness remaining. The
mouth—a little while ago, so sullenly projected in defiance—was
relaxed and livid.
“E par che de la sua labbia si mova
Uno spirto soave e pien d’amore,
Chi va dicendo a l’anima: sospira!”
The first symptom of returning life was a quivering about the lips—a
little mute soundless attempt at speech; but the eyes were still closed;
and the quivering sank into stillness. Then, feebly leaning on her arms
for an instant to steady herself, Margaret gathered herself up, and
rose. Her comb had fallen out of her hair; and with an intuitive desire
to efface the traces of weakness, and bring herself into order again,
she sought for it, although from time to time, in the course of the
search, she had to sit down and recover strength. Her head drooped
forwards—her hands meekly laid one upon the other—she tried to recall
the force of her temptation, by endeavouring to remember the details
which had thrown her into such deadly fright; but she could not. She
only understood two facts—that Frederick had been in danger of being
pursued and detected in London, as not only guilty of manslaughter, but
as the more unpardonable leader of the mutiny, and that she had lied to
save him. There was one comfort; her lie had saved him, if only by
gaining some additional time. If the inspector came again to-morrow,
after she had received the letter she longed for to assure her of her
brother’s safety, she would brave shame, and stand in her bitter
penance—she the lofty Margaret—acknowledging before a crowded
justice-room, if need were, that she had been as “a dog, and done this
thing.” But if he came before she heard from Frederick; if he returned,
as he had half threatened, in a few hours, why! she would tell that lie
again; though how the words would come out, after all this terrible
pause for reflection and self-reproach, without betraying her falsehood,
she did not know, she could not tell. But her repetition of it would
gain time—time for Frederick.
She was roused by Dixon’s entrance into the room; she had just been
letting out Mr. Thornton.
He had hardly gone ten steps in the street, before a passing omnibus
stopped close by him, and a man got down, and came up to him, touching
his hat as he did so. It was the police-inspector.
Mr. Thornton had obtained for him his first situation in the police, and
had heard from time to time of the progress of his protégé, but they had
not often met, and at first Mr. Thornton did not remember him.
“My name is Watson—George Watson, sir, that you got——”
“Ah, yes! Why you are getting on famously, I hear.”
“Yes, sir. I ought to thank you, sir. But it is on a little matter of
business I made so bold as to speak to you now. I believe you were the
magistrate who attended to take down the deposition of a poor man who
died in the Infirmary last night.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Thornton. “I went and heard some kind of a rambling
statement, which the clerk said was of no great use. I’m afraid he was
but a drunken fellow, though there is no doubt he came to his death by
violence at last. One of my mother’s servants was engaged to him, I
believe, and she is in great distress to-day. What about him?”
“Why, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with somebody in the house I saw
you coming out of just now; it was a Mr. Hales’s I believe.”
“Yes!” said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp round and looking into the
inspector’s face with sudden interest. “What about it?”
“Why, sir, it seems to me that I have got a pretty distinct chain of
evidence, inculpating a gentleman who was walking with Miss Hale that
night at the Outwood station, as the man who struck or pushed Leonards
off the platform and so caused his death. But the young lady denies that
she was there at the time.”
“Miss Hale denies she was there!” repeated Mr. Thornton in an altered
voice. “Tell me, what evening was it? What time?”
“About six o’clock, on the evening of Thursday, the twenty-sixth.”
They walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or two. The
inspector was the first to speak.
“You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner’s inquest; and I’ve got a
young man who is pretty positive,—at least he was at first;—since he
has heard of the young lady’s denial, he says he should not like to
swear; but still he’s pretty positive that he saw Miss Hale at the
station, walking about with a gentleman, not five minutes before the
time, when one of the porters saw a scuffle, which he set down to some
of Leonards’ impudence—but which led to the fall which caused his
death. And seeing you come out of the very house, sir, I thought I might
make bold to ask if—you see, it’s always awkward having to do with
cases of disputed identity, and one doesn’t like to doubt the word of a
respectable young woman unless one has strong proof to the contrary.”
“And she denied having been at the station that evening!” repeated Mr.
Thornton, in a low, brooding tone.
“Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be. I told her I should call
again, but seeing you just as I was on my way back from questioning the
young man who said it was her, I thought I would ask your advice, both
as the magistrate who saw Leonards on his death-bed, and as the
gentleman who got me my berth in the force.”
“You were quite right,” said Mr. Thornton. “Don’t take any steps till
you have seen me again.”
“The young lady will expect me to call, from what I said.”
“I only want to delay you an hour. It’s now three. Come to my warehouse
at four.”
“Very well, sir!”
And they parted company. Mr. Thornton hurried to his warehouse, and,
sternly forbidding his clerks to allow any one to interrupt him, he went
his way to his own private room, and locked the door. Then he indulged
himself in the torture of thinking it all over, and realising every
detail. How could he have lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in
which her tearful image had mirrored itself not two hours before, till
he had weakly pitied her and yearned towards her, and forgotten the
savage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight of her—and that
unknown to him—at such an hour—in such a place—had inspired him! How
could one so pure have stooped from her decorous and noble manner of
bearing! But was it decorous—was it? He hated himself for the idea
that forced itself upon him, just for an instant—no more—and yet,
while it was present, thrilled him with its old potency of attraction
towards her image. And then this falsehood—how terrible must be some
dread of shame to be revealed—for, after all, the provocation given by
such a man as Leonards was, when excited by drinking, might, in all
probability, be more than enough to justify any one who came forward to
state the circumstances openly and without reserve! How creeping and
deadly that fear which could bow down the truthful Margaret to
falsehood! He could almost pity her. What would be the end of it? She
could not have considered all she was entering upon; if there was an
inquest and the young man came forward. Suddenly he started up. There
should be no inquest. He would save Margaret. He would take the
responsibility of preventing the inquest, the issue of which, from the
uncertainty of the medical testimony (which he had vaguely heard the
night before, from the surgeon in attendance), could be but doubtful;
the doctors had discovered an internal disease far advanced, and sure to
prove fatal; they had stated that death might have been accelerated by
the fall, or by the subsequent drinking and exposure to cold. If he had
but known how Margaret would have become involved in the affair—if he
had but foreseen that he would have stained her whiteness by a
falsehood, he could have saved her by a word; for the question, of
inquest or no inquest, had hung trembling in the balance only the night
before. Miss Hale might love another—was indifferent and contemptuous
to him—but he would yet do her faithful acts of service of which she
should never know. He might despise her, but the woman whom he had once
loved should be kept from shame; and shame it would be to pledge herself
to a lie in a public court, or otherwise to stand and acknowledge her
reason for desiring darkness rather than light.
Very gray and stern did Mr. Thornton look, as he passed out through his
wondering clerks. He was away about half an hour; and scarcely less
stern did he look when he returned, although his errand had been
successful.
He wrote two lines on a slip of paper, put it in an envelope, and sealed
it up. This he gave to one of the clerks, saying:—
“I appointed Watson—he who was a packer in the warehouse, and who went
into the police—to call on me at four o’clock. I have just met a
gentleman from Liverpool who wishes to see me before he leaves town.
Take care to give this note to Watson when he calls.”
The note contained these words:
“There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to justify
it. Take no further steps. I have not seen the coroner; but I will take